


Intimate Knowledge

by Prix



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, Intimacy, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-12-25 00:27:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21108482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prix/pseuds/Prix
Summary: Aziraphale formally accepts Crowley's invitation to stay at his place. After all, there isn't anywhere else for him to go.[Missing scene after Aziraphale and Crowley arrive back in London, or one version of how they might have finally crossed the line from friends to lovers.]





	Intimate Knowledge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AstroGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstroGirl/gifts).

The first thing they share on the ride back to London by way of an Oxford-bound bus is silence. Aziraphale and Crowley feel the steady vibration of the machine and its occasional lurches across imperfections in the pavement relax them into their respective seats. There is space to breathe for the first time this week, and it is to be expected that they take some time to try and make sense of the events of these last days. 

Aziraphale thumbs at the sole prophecy that had floated back into his grasp as though through divine providence[1]. He wonders what it might mean. Sometimes, he spares a glance for the the demon sitting next to him -- a demon with more care for what ought to be than any of his direct supervisors in Heaven had, in the end. 

Crowley sprawls himself a bit across the seat, slumping, parting his knees, and letting existential tension drain from his being. Quite literally existential tension. Everything still _exists_. When he looks out the window at the passing lights and long, spooky shadows of forests and little villages where everyone but the monsters and ghosts have gone to sleep, he draws deep breaths and lets them out heavily. The world and the people in it are still out there, and it brings him some small, strange, and rather undemonic pleasure to know that they are safe in their beds and that Sunday morning will come after all. 

When Crowley relaxes himself, Aziraphale feels the side of his lanky leg bump into his. It disrupts his reverie, but Aziraphale is capable of mind and has spent a rather long time studying books of prophecy. He has discerned what he thinks the meaning of it must be, but as he looks sidelong at Crowley, from the crest of his deep red hair to the toes of his shoes, it seems almost indecent. Finally, he finds a safe place to gingerly place the little piece of paper deep into a pocket. 

There is rather more of an elephant in the room, or on the bus, as it were. Generally, their meetings in places like this have had more of a pretext of purpose. Now that everything is done, at least in some sense, Aziraphale finds himself hesitating on the precipices of words a bit more. He shifts his weight in the seat and looks out into the aisle of the bus, ahead at the back of the driver’s head, and finally back over to Crowley. He sees the movement of Crowley’s eyebrows above and imagines his eyes behind his dark glasses. 

“What is it?” Crowley asks, voice coming from deep within his chest, held aloft on a deep breath. It seems that he had been toeing the edge of something, too. To Crowley’s credit, he tries to make everything seem normal. 

“I suppose I should… formally accept your invitation,” Aziraphale says cordially. He offers another nervous little smile. 

“And which invitation is that?” Crowley asks. He doesn’t mean to antagonize Aziraphale. It is only that a part of him relishes the idea of Aziraphale agreeing to come and stay with him while another believes that such a thing could never really happen. But the world seems, in some subtle way, made anew. 

“To… To stay with you, for… the time being,” Aziraphale replies, clearly more flustered than Crowley had intended to make him. “Since, well… since… my bookshop…” he says, but he cannot quite say it. 

“Oh,” Crowley says with more compassion in his voice. He relaxes his shoulders and straightens his posture just a little. “I really am… terribly sorry about that.” He knows how much it meant to Aziraphale, and the look on Aziraphale’s face as they discuss it is enough to break any beating heart. “But… you can… stay at my place. Anytime you like. For as… long as you like,” he says, turning a bit in the seat to find a way to face him attentively. This seems like the kind of thing a person ought to be attentive while saying. He is watching Aziraphale for anything that would count as a clue to what he is thinking, feeling.

“‘As long as I like,’” Aziraphale says. Echoing the sentiment seems to lighten the grave look that had come over his face at the thought of all those lost, priceless books. He seems lost in the thought for a moment -- long enough for Crowley to feel compelled to draw him out of it. 

“Well?” he asks. “So you will then?” 

“I suppose I have no choice,” Aziraphale says, bristling out of a token sense of obligation. Seeing and feeling how heavily Crowley is watching him, he extends a hand after a moment. He thinks he ought to touch him somehow, and this seems to be the proper way to seal an agreement, after all. 

Crowley takes his hand, and Aziraphale feels his firm and steady fingers grasp and shake it. He sighs just a little when he lets go. The rest of the bus ride is passed in what feels like more ordinary conversation. Even when nothing at all is the same as before, it isn’t difficult for them to find something to talk about that whiles away hours and miles of darkened road. It is pleasant enough that for just a moment Aziraphale misses when horses were the fastest means of transportation as the bus strains under its own weight, squeaks and rattles, and then finally gives a great hiss as its door opens. 

“This is us,” Crowley says, all-too-satisfied that they are the only stop on this particular route. 

“So it is,” Aziraphale says just to have something to say as he finds himself leading the way off the bus. He thanks the bus driver and sees that the fare is paid as well as a miraculous fuel-up for the ailing petrol tank. 

When they are standing outside Crowley’s building, it is so late that it’s actually early. Dawn will arrive in a few hours, but for the moment it is still dark and almost silent. The stars would have been visible if not for the light pollution, and while neither of them notice, perhaps they do shine just a bit brighter tonight.

* * *

Crowley’s flat smells and feels like winter. The ambient light that comes in through the windows is cast over stony gray that seems to be as tangible a presence as any of the sparse but ornate furniture. The light inside the apartment gives the impression of candlelight, whether it is or not, in the way it is the only warmth in the place and it dares not fill too much of the space around it. Shadows are long and deep, and the A/C is cranked up until it would give anyone goosebumps. There is a faint smell of smoke that seems to be cowering in the corners, chased away by a sensation of almost smelling nothing. Perhaps this is aided by the lush plants that seem to rustle in a nonexistent breeze as Crowley leads the way through the door. 

Aziraphale is uncertain whether it is the cold or the sensation of standing somewhere he has never been before that makes him draw his arms in closer to his body. After a moment, he rubs and his arms just above the elbow, transferring a sensation of warmth through his sleeves. 

Crowley moves ahead into the strangely open space and checks the rustling plants out of habit. 

Aziraphale wonders how it is that Crowley has walked into the bookshop so many times, and yet he has never found himself here. He has known that Crowley had a flat, and he has known that he apparently had taken to tending plants in the last few decades, but he has never _been here_. He clears his throat softly. 

Crowley straightens from examining a leaf with chilly scrutiny. He looks back around at Aziraphale, and he hopes that he doesn’t appear too tense. He had been trying to give the impression that he had his home quite in order, making sure the plants were on their best behaviour, but there is only so much he can do before he has to come to terms with the fact that Aziraphale is here in his flat to _stay with him_. 

He is trying not to let his mind wander, but it is much like trying to stop a racehorse after the gun has been fired and the gate has opened. Futile, really. 

“Right,” he says, verbal tick more than anything else. “Can I get you anything?” he asks. He hesitates. He really hasn’t got anything in. His kitchen is less a kitchen and more a very sparse horticultural laboratory. There are a few small planters that appear freshly purchased or newly occupied. There are even a few naturally small plants that are aligned in black, shiny pots that are balanced along with windowsill above the sink to soak in gray-filtered sunlight during the day. They are overgrowing, creating a surprising latticework of vines and leaves and delicate, modest, and perfect flowers. 

He does happen to have an espresso machine that is rather close to a century old that has seen very little use and great care. He also has a functioning refrigerator that may or may not have anything in it. He cannot recall. He has a liquor cabinet, but how many bottles it truly contains rather than what he has just seen fit to conjure on a moment’s notice is a question he suddenly finds himself asking in the form of a hesitant stammer. 

“No. Thank you,” Aziraphale says primly. He brings his fingers together and presses them against each other, fidgeting and stretching. 

“Oh,” Crowley replies. He isn’t sure if he is disappointed or relieved. He has never really had a _guest_ before, unfortunate demons who intended to see to his destruction notwithstanding. That reminder has him glancing at a certain doorway and corner and swallowing tightly. “Thank you, by the way.” 

“Whatever for?” Aziraphale asks with interest. 

“Holy water,” Crowley replies with a punctuating gulp. 

“You… You’ve _used it_?” Aziraphale asks. His eyes go wide and his arms fall down to his sides. He marches up to Crowley and looks him over as if he has just grown a second head. 

Crowley is completely sure he hasn’t. 

“Yes, I used it,” he replies defiantly. “When _else_ was I going to use it if not today?” 

“But you could have been destroyed!” Aziraphale says with century-old dismay. 

Crowley makes a gesture that is not quite as dismissive or confident as a shrug. He glances away, even if his eyes are hidden behind dark glasses. 

“Don’t be so flippant, you--” 

“I used it _earlier today_! While you were… well, I think while you were… dead,” Crowley says, and then he has to look back at Aziraphale just to reassure himself that he still properly, corporeally exists. It would seem that their concern for one another’s continued existence is mutual, even in its depth. His throat and chest both seem to constrict on themselves at the memory of that feeling: knowing that he couldn’t sense Aziraphale _anywhere_, that he was _gone_. He tilts his head slightly, not sure what to say. 

“I wasn’t dead,” Aziraphale replies, embarrassed. “I was… inconveniently discorporated.” 

“Well please don’t ever do that again,” Crowley snaps. “... Besides, I think you may have used up your chances at getting another… body,” he says, hesitating on the word as he reassures himself one more time that Aziraphale is standing there, solid and breathing. “I know I certainly have.” 

Aziraphale looks down at the smooth, dark floor. He shifts his weight from one side to the other, uncomfortably. 

“Yes,” he agrees, sounding lost, fathoms deep. “I suppose I have… Well, if it’s like you said, and perhaps… She… meant it to be this way… then…” Aziraphale stops himself. He feels himself run upon a wall, and he doesn’t know quite what to do with himself. 

The strangest thing is that hearing Crowley suggest that She might have intended it this way all along had made Aziraphale feel rather better about this whole situation than he had in the whole prelude to Armageddon. Only, upon reflection it means that if Crowley is at all right, then even those thought to be her righteous messengers are so utterly fallible and capable of cruelty, of _sin_ if he has ever understood the word, that it breaks his heart. At least his own department seems to have become corrupt all the way to the top. 

Crowley can see Aziraphale’s eyes searching for miles and miles and finding nothing familiar to rest upon. Without letting himself think it through enough to hesitate, he reaches out and lays his hand over Aziraphale’s shoulder. He grips it gently. 

Aziraphale is startled by the sudden warmth; it feels like an anchor or perhaps a life-preserver. _Life-preserver._

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale suddenly says. “I should tell you…” 

Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up once more as Aziraphale starts fishing in his pocket. He draws out the slip of paper he had been poring over back in Tadfield. 

“What?” he asks with a bit of trepidation. 

“I think I’ve worked out what it means.”

* * *

A short time later, Aziraphale has received quite the unofficial tour of Crowley’s apartment. First, he had followed him into what appears to be a sort of office. There is a rather alarming stain on the floor by the door that he notices Crowley sort of hop over upon entry, even while they discuss what the prophecy could possibly mean. It is less physical damage to the floor and more a metaphysical hole that screams with molten heat that makes Aziraphale realize that this was the spot. 

With a subtle glance, he cleans the spot away by force of will. 

Crowley becomes restless again. He had perched on the chair that appears to be a throne more than anything else, much to Aziraphale’s strange lack of surprise. Then he had stalked back through into the foyer with the plants and past it. Into the disused, or rather misused, kitchen he goes, and past it, and past another door, and all the while Aziraphale walks behind him. 

He isn’t sure what Crowley’s objection to this is when it seems plain as day to him now, but Aziraphale finally hesitates just over the threshold of what he has suddenly realized is Crowley’s bedroom. He looks around. It is a nice room, though it is as uncomfortably sparse as the rest of the place. The bed is quite too big for Crowley, Aziraphale notices, and he is shifting his weight back and forth on his feet. 

Crowley sits down on the edge of his bed and stares back at Aziraphale. He looks him over from head to toe after several tense minutes of trying to find every excuse not to look at him at all. 

“You _think_,” he says with the utmost skepticism he can muster, “that some crazy old woman wants me to _switch bodies with you_.” He gestures at Aziraphale’s whole form with a loose-fingered gesture and a crinkle of his nose. 

Aziraphale draws a deep breath and his whole posture seems a bit dampened as he exhales. 

“I do understand that it isn’t… ideal. For you,” he says. Gabriel _had_ made certain comments that are suddenly brought sharply back to mind, and they hadn’t even been the worst thing that an angel had said to him today. 

Crowley furrows his brow at Aziraphale, even more consternated than before. He leans back against the heels of his hands. He is bloody exhausted, but he stays focused. He has no choice, really. 

“What do you mean ‘for me’?” he asks. It is a dangerous question, but he has been asking those since the beginning. No point in shying away now.[2]

“Well,” Aziraphale says, stalling for time. He finally walks a little further into Crowley’s bedchamber and begins to look around at the few pieces of artwork and genuine articles of clothing hanging in an open closet. He takes interest in every detail, pacing around the room innocently. “You are rather… sleek, after all, and I am…” 

“What?” Crowley asks. He is baffled as he watches Aziraphale. He grows frustrated at the fact that his voice is kept rather low and is muffled by his constant movement around the room. 

“... soft,” Aziraphale finishes, softly too. 

“I don’t know what you’re going on about, but would you _stop_?” Crowley demands. 

Aziraphale gives him an alarmed, nearly hurt look. 

“Stop what?” he asks. 

“The… pacing. Will you just sit down,” Crowley suggests, indicating the ample space beside him. 

Aziraphale looks at the edge of the bed, the empty space beside Crowley, and feels his peripheral vision go a bit fuzzy. He glances at Crowley, leaned back on the heels of his hands, long and looking rather _open_ somehow. He is tempted, but he quickly manages a polite smile and chuckle. He shakes his head. 

“Oh, no, I’m fine,” he says politely. 

“Sit,” Crowley brays again with a jerking nod. 

“I never have really grown accustomed to… beds,” Aziraphale says. He knows that they are generally comfortable these days, but in the past he had never felt the need to lie on a lumpy bundle of hay or something equally unpleasant. He is an angel, and he does not actually have a _need_ for the things that humans must do to keep their bodies alive and well. Certainly, he has learned to enjoy some earthly pleasures, but sleeping - alone, for hours on end, giving his conscious mind over to dreaming - has not been one of them. 

“Just think of it as a bloody great sofa then. Aziraphale, sit.” 

“Oh, fine,” Aziraphale huffs. “I’m not a hound,” he says as he turns and sits at Crowley’s side. Apart from the mattress being a great deal softer, he finds that the act itself isn’t unlike sitting beside him on a bench, waiting for a bus. Being near Crowley seems natural, normal, and quite enjoyable, if he allows himself to think of it. 

Crowley stares ahead as Aziraphale finally listens and sits down beside him. He looks across the room at nothing in particular. 

“I do wonder what he ended up calling the Hound,” he remarks. He just as quickly shelves the interest and looks over at Aziraphale who is quite closer now. “Hello,” he says, a bit wryly. 

“Hello,” Aziraphale replies brightly. He moves his hands about a bit randomly for a moment before he settles them both atop his corresponding thighs, down near his knees. 

Crowley finds himself watching every movement he makes with some interest. He distracts himself by kicking off his shoes. Every movement he makes, he is aware of the pressure and sensation in his skin. It has been a long day, and in a certain sense, his body feels it. Aziraphale sitting beside him doesn’t deter him from considering how nice it would be to lie back on the bed, to sleep, but his mind flits unbidden to the fact that there are other things _people_ do with beds. 

They share them, sometimes. 

His chest tightens with familiar reticence. He has known that Aziraphale and he have shared a lot of things for a very long time -- more things, in fact, than they had with anyone in Heaven, Hell, or Earth. But that was not one of them. 

The thought had come to mind sometimes, after a night of drinking - just before he had elected to sober himself up. 

It had also come to mind in Rome, the first time he’d seen Aziraphale eat and prattle on about everything, nothing, all the while making likely unintended suggestions of intimacy that Crowley had certainly never known. Then, he had dissuaded himself with the thought that this might all be a fluke and that Aziraphale was, at his core, like the rest of them, willing to cast judgment at the next possible moment. 

Unhelpfully, that hadn’t happened. 

He had thought of it again in a car in Soho in the late ‘60s. It had been worse, then. He could see Aziraphale’s eyes in the neon red lights, and as he held the thermos filled with deadly contraband, he felt things in his chest seem to go all out of place and weak. He had wanted nothing more than for him to _stay_, and he could see the terror of recognition in Aziraphale’s eyes, and he’d known. 

They shared a lot of things, but they couldn’t have _that_. 

He had always - or should have always - known better. 

“Are you alright, dear?” Aziraphale asks, breaking Crowley’s concentration on his carefully compiled list of why he should not think everything he has just furtively thought. 

“Yeah, fine,” Crowley huffs. He looks over at him. “So, if we are to do this…” he says, deciding to launch into it rather than dwell. 

“To do what?” 

Crowley groans softly. Of course he would choose this time to be oblivious in a way that could engender, in certain minds, false and stupid wishful thinking. 

“Switch bodies,” he says impatiently, cross with himself rather than Aziraphale. 

“Oh, right, yes,” Aziraphale says, glancing down at himself. He smooths his hands over his clothing, down to his abdomen. He is self-conscious and wonders if he ought to miracle himself into a more svelte form. It really wouldn’t take very much. There were more frivolous miracles, he considered, and he was sure to get worse than a reprimand whatever he did now. 

“I was thinking…” Crowley prompts. He leans forward, following Aziraphale’s line of sight and wondering what Aziraphale finds so fascinating about his jacket. “Oh, stop fussing,” he complains when he doesn’t seem to have garnered Aziraphale’s full attention. 

“I beg your--” Aziraphale starts to say, but then he sighs and grants Crowley his eyes. “Though I do wish you’d take your glasses off. We are indoors after all.” 

Crowley reaches up to the frame and takes them between a finger and his thumb. He hesitates. He had never really liked it when others could see his eyes. Especially when the age of magic and comfort with the spooky parts of reality had come to a close, he had found that they tended to cause great discomfort at best and, in worse cases, riots. He didn’t particularly like them, either. There had been a time when his nature had been more complex than a simple _snake_, but he was - after all and from the beginning - the very reason for their less-than-favourable reputation. 

Earthly snakes had never seemed to like him very much. 

“Go on,” Aziraphale coaxes. He is aware of Crowley’s reluctance, though he has never known what the problem with having golden eyes is. 

The glasses make a soft sound as Crowley sets them on his bedside table. He turns back to Aziraphale and blinks once at the adjustment to light. Sometimes, Aziraphale himself seems like a soft lightsource with his brilliant white hair and bright everything. 

“... Well, I…” Crowley begins again, but then he blinks once more and looks down along Aziraphale’s body to his abdomen. He has a sudden moment of realization about what Aziraphale’s reluctance probably is. He chuckles softly, not entirely pleasantly, and bows his head to shake it a little, disbelieving. 

“Wh-What is it?” Aziraphale asks. He reaches out for Crowley’s shoulder and lightly pushes it as if to right his posture. 

“Oh, you daft angel,” Crowley says as he allows himself to be pushed back up. 

“What exactly have I done that is ‘daft’?” 

“My only _real_ worry,” Crowley says, deciding to show his cards about their _plan_ rather than drawing attention to further reason for argument, “is that we… well. We’re quite… different, aren’t we? In a way.” 

“Well I _know_ that I am not quite… by earthly… or heavenly standards…” 

“No. No, no, no,” Crowley objects. “I mean… can you really _pretend_ to be me?” 

Aziraphale considers it, eyes moving about in a way that indicates his intelligent mind at work. 

“Well, I’ve certainly spent a lot of time with you. I think I know what you’re like,” he says helpfully. 

“... And I know you, but…” Crowley says, dubiously. He trails off, not really sure what his point was after all. His gaze casts downward at the space on the edge of the duvet between them. 

Aziraphale sees Crowley’s almost saddened uncertainty and decides that he must take initiative. He scrambles for something. He straightens his posture, reins in his features into a more placid expression. Then he tries his best to give Crowley a rather worldly and skeptical look. 

“Oh, to hell with ratty old books. Records and… flashy cars are the peak of human invention,” he offers. 

Crowley looks up and appears dumbfounded for a moment. 

“... Oh, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale adds quickly, lifting a placating hand. “A bit too soon about the car,” he says, wincing sympathetically. 

Crowley just keeps staring until finally he can bear it no more. He starts laughing until he feels the strain in his abdomen force him to lie back on his bed in an outright guffaw. 

“Oh, do be kind. I haven’t had much practice,” Aziraphale complains.

“Well, I suppose we do have the rest of the night…” Crowley says, his voice just a little deeper and touching on the edge of a certain aimless suggestion that he knows will never take shape. It is comforting sometimes, just to brush his fingers against it without ever trying to take hold.

* * *

Their conversation meanders, and eventually Crowley finds his way up to his elbows. Then he was lazily seated against the heels of his hands again, though decidedly less elegantly than before. 

They talk of nostalgia, and they argue about past faults. They ask each other questions they had never thought to ask before. They discuss centuries’ worth of popular culture and not-so-popular culture, the occult and the strange, the ecclesiastical and the completely banal. Their voices are low and mostly warm and pleasant. 

Neither feels particularly inclined to look away from the other. 

After a couple of hours when the darkness outside really is feeling quite poorly, they lapse into silence. 

Aziraphale neatly rubs his lips together, feeling they have gone a bit dry. 

“I suppose we… know each other perfectly now,” he jokes pleasantly. 

“Better than anyone else,” Crowley agrees. His eyelids seem a bit heavier, his pupils a bit wider than normal. 

“Quite…” Aziraphale says, not sure if that’s the end of the sentiment or not. 

“... Quite…” Crowley agrees. 

The air seems colder to Aziraphale because there is something in Crowley’s gaze that seems heated in contrast. He feels drawn in, rather like an insect to a street lamp, though there should certainly be a more elegant metaphor than that. 

Crowley wants to say it. The thought, the word is right there, so convenient. He could say it, and then maybe something would change. But he is afraid. He has always been afraid, for Aziraphale’s sake. He clears his throat softly. 

“So I suppose the only thing left to do is…” 

He looks down and extends his hand, intending to create some point of contact from which they can copy the nature of the reality of the other, at least well enough for outward appearances. 

He had meant to do that, only the next moment it isn’t Aziraphale’s hand or forearm that he touches but his lips. 

Neither of them is quite sure which properly precipitated the action, but it seemed that they had unanimously decided that they had not quite run out of things to do just yet. 

Aziraphale had very little experience in the way of personal contact of this nature. There had been happily intoxicated evenings in discreet gentleman’s clubs when he had allowed dancing to give way to some momentary forays into rather nice kisses, but he had quickly disentangled and excused himself before the course of the evening ever got to his needing to either explain his metaphysical nature or suddenly materialize more body parts than he typically possessed. 

Crowley, on the other hand, had no experience with personal contact of his nature. He is clumsy but enthusiastic in his leaning into it. Then he feels his teeth mash awkwardly into his lips so he lets up a bit, only to take Aziraphale by the sleeve and tug him closer as he leans back against his bed. He wants Aziraphale to come with him, to be persuaded to show him, to give him more of whatever this is. 

Aziraphale comes to his senses of self and place again when Crowley has managed to pull him down over himself. He’d needed to brace one hand to the side of Crowley’s shoulder, and he finds himself looking down into his strange, enchanting eyes. 

“Crowley,” he cries softly, but it isn’t a complaint. “What are you doing?” he asks, then he glances at his own arm and a look of embarrassment comes over his face as he realizes the absurdity of trying to blame Crowley for it, at least alone. He makes no effort to correct himself verbally, though. 

“Well, I… I’m not sure, but I think… the only thing we lack now is…” Crowley says, emboldened by the fact that it had finally happened and Aziraphale is still quite completely Aziraphale, “... intimate knowledge,” he suggests. The words themselves feel as if they have a sort of intoxicating, freeing effect. He reaches up, fingers fumbling over fabric until he finds the side and then the back of Aziraphale’s neck. He tries tugging him back down again. 

Aziraphale doesn’t bother resisting at that point, feeling pinpricks of tangible joy rush over his skin, replacing the cold of the room completely. He allows himself to be pulled down, to be pulled in, but then he doesn’t require any further persuasion to kiss Crowley again. 

Crowley’s fingers clutch at Aziraphale’s clothes and feel along the folds of them. His eyes close as he drinks in the sensation of their lips pressed together, sliding over each other. He breathes in deeply. Aziraphale smells of warm liqueur and and patchouli and simply _himself_. That knowledge alone makes Crowley hum with contentment which seems to inspire an as yet unknown depth of kissing of which he approves. 

He gasps for a breath when he feels Aziraphale’s free hand slide up along his side. His nerve endings seem to tickle and sing at being touched in places he is quite sure he has never been physically touched. Then he feels Aziraphale’s soft fingers touch at the collar of his shirt and then down along the v-neck -- the bare skin of his chest. Crowley squirms, his spine arching just a little. He wants _more_ even if he isn’t entirely cognizant of what more could be from here. 

“You said…” Aziraphale asks, breaking the contact of their mouths just long enough. 

“Yes?” Crowley all but pleads. 

“You said something about… erm… biblical knowledge,” he said. 

“Intimate knowledge. But… yes. Same thing,” Crowley assures him urgently. 

“Yes, so… I am to take it… that is, that you want…?” 

“I want you. I’ve always… wanted… _you_,” Crowley confesses, feeling the relief of repentance of every stupid moment he’d thought that it was a bad, dangerous thing. 

“Very well, then,” Aziraphale says. He draws back, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes for a second. Crowley watches him with fascination and a little brow-furrow of confusion. Then, he hears the fibres of reality sing a little as their clothes don’t quite disappear but rather appear folded in two neat piles across the room on the dresser, all but their respective choice of pants. 

“Mm,” Crowley grunts, considering and feeling the burst of cool air across his skin. The presence of Aziraphale’s body heat against his feels like something he could gladly bask in forever. “Hello,” he repeats, playfully. 

And for a little while after that, Aziraphale is content to kiss Crowley. He finds himself leaning more comfortably over his body, and he feels when their breath comes in and out together and when they breathe discordantly. His hand flattens against Crowley’s which is open, palm bare, and their fingers lace together. 

And finally, when every part of his body feels alive to the point of bursting, he feels Crowley squirm, even writhe beneath him. 

Crowley finds space to speak against Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“Could we… well, get to know each other better?” Crowley asks. He laughs softly at himself, his face gone a bright shade of pink. 

Aziraphale knows what he is asking, and for the first time he feels completely at ease that making such an effort wouldn’t be at all out of place. 

“If… you’d like,” he says delicately. “Is there… anything you’d like… in particular?” he asks, since this is quite the matter of choice for both of them. 

“Whatever you want first,” Crowley says, the words bursting out as if he’d prepared them at least a few moments before. There is a promise of more, of trying whatever Aziraphale likes, of doing this now and doing it again, assuming they both survive. He wants to survive even more than he had before, if he can have this. 

“I can’t be expected to choose. I’m the angel…” 

“Oh, don’t start with that,” Crowley chides, chuckling and happily breathing in to feel the security of Aziraphale’s body pressed so close to his. “That has nothing to do with good or bad or sides or anything. It’s… what you do with it…” he says, making sure to look Aziraphale in the eyes, goading him. 

It seems to be enough, because a moment later he sees Aziraphale’s familiar look of brief concentration, and he reaches down with a slightly overexcited hand to grasp at the loose, soft shorts to feel beneath them. 

Aziraphale gasps delicately and then groans indelicately, bowing his head down until his forehead touches Crowley’s shoulder as Crowley’s fumbling hand gets to know the warmth and heat he finds there. 

To be fair, and because every other part of his body _needs_ some outlet for release, Crowley decides on matching Aziraphale in kind without hesitation. 

Then there is less need for Aziraphale’s shorts or the tight, black things that Crowley wears beneath his own trousers. 

Aziraphale manages to save face by fumbling with his own hand and brushing his hand along Crowley’s thigh. He feels the rougher texture of hair and the soft texture of skin there, and then when he finally reaches the center, the skin is softer still. He feels gratified that the sound Crowley makes and the way his features twist with surprise and then go slack with surrender is even less dignified than his own initial reaction had been. 

Undignified, but beautiful. 

He lightly, rather chastely, kisses Crowley’s cheek. 

“Pl-Please, Aziraphale…” Crowley gasps when he feels his hand and his soft, gentle lips against his face. “I want…” he says, but he cannot quite think of a nicer word than ‘fuck,’ and he means something nicer than that. 

Nevertheless, he gasps that word a short while later when Aziraphale gets the idea and their bodies are pressed together, finding contact with new nerves and new sensations that both of them seem equally ill-prepared to cope with. Neither of them give up on it, though. 

Aziraphale feels his body teach a breaking point of tension before Crowley seems quite so overwhelmed. 

“Oh, my dear, I’m… afraid I… you…” he says, not sure how to articulate it. 

“Whatever you want with me,” Crowley answers the non-question. 

And so Aziraphale trembles and gasps and collapses a little more against Crowley, just barely anchoring himself on his forearms. He grinds against Crowley’s body, and there is a strange meeting of the sensation of creating stars with the most obscene, desperate convulsions. Even while he reels and trembles with exhaustion afterward, he knows that he _needs_ Crowley to know what it feels like, too. He won’t rest until he does. 

Crowley feels dazed and drunk and high and absolutely enthralled with Aziraphale. He doesn’t even need to feel whatever it was Aziraphale just felt and did to know that he is. So he almost complains when Aziraphale moves a bit to his side, but he is silenced and then driven to inarticulate yelps and murmurings of gratitude as he feels Aziraphale’s hand reach for him again. 

Aziraphale says it first -- the nice words that Crowley had been so afraid to say. 

“I love you,” the angel says with conviction as he presses a serene if not chaste sort of kiss to his neck. And another, and another. 

And with them, Crowley starts to answer and repeat those words with increasing, breathless urgency. 

“I love you, I love you, I love you… _fuck_,” he says, and then he has to say it again as he sees stars that he’d thought to run to appear right before him and blind him for a brillant moment. He gulps and gasps for air. “How… What…” he asks. 

“I believe that’s called ‘making love,’” Aziraphale reports. He has had the chance to catch his breath, and Crowley growls at the faintest hint of smugness he senses in the response. 

“It bloody well isn’t,” he grumbles in return. 

“I challenge you to find a better term for it.” 

“I don’t have to,” Crowley says pointedly. But then he feels a bit bad when he looks at the look of silly disappointment that shades Aziraphale’s eyes for a moment. “But… I suppose… it’s _one_ term for it…” 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says. Then he leans back on the pillow. 

Crowley props himself up even though his arm seems intent on being rather shaky about it. He looks over at Aziraphale lying down and notes that he’s never seen it before, at least not in a bed. 

“I believe if you cannot feel at ease in my body _now_...” he says. 

“Oh, don’t be glib,” Aziraphale pleads. 

“I’m _not_,” Crowley laughs. “But… I think… we can afford to get some sleep,” he says as he watches how pleasantly tired Aziraphale looks, his eyelids gone a bit heavy. 

“I don’t need to sleep,” Aziraphale argues, though he makes no effort to get up. 

“You can. With me,” Crowley replies. 

And for once, Aziraphale agrees to indulge him without argument. Crowley leans back, and for a moment they are simply side by side, heads on two separate pillows that had never been needed before. Then, after a moment, their hands find each other. It is a simple touch, but they close their eyes, and they drift off until the mid-morning sun rouses them both. They arise, different than they were before, but knowing each other and what they need from each other all the same.

* * *

[1] And perhaps it was. 

[2] What Crowley had still failed to consider was that these sorts of questions are the ones whose answers any life, filled with infinite possibility for pleasure and pain, good and evil, joy and grief, is built upon.

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope you enjoyed this! I was so intrigued by most of your list that I tried to grab a couple of concepts even from untagged tropes like the crisis of faith one. I tried to be tastefully vague about the sex part because I'm not used to writing explicit stuff for exchanges and wanted to challenge myself to write a fic that actually contained sex for a recipient who was open to it while allowing anyone to read whatever genitals they'd like into the equation. After all, one thing that I think is cool is that they can do whatever the heck they want if they "make the effort."


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